loose threads

I ask you to define death, and you tell me that death is a __pantheon of__ ___nightmares__
shifting into alignment right
before the collapse.

When I look into your ___past__
I can see how this
question came with a gravity that weighs you down at the __root__
- I would apologize, but instead I _light a cigarette___
and that's something you hate about me, but you know it makes sense anyways.

Tell me about this room, the ___wallpaper__, the way the answer tastes like __lemon candy__  rolling around across your tongue. This conversation is __over__, still, I __reluctantly ask you to define time.

Your eyes shut slow, or do they? What is slow? What is time?- I ask again. You take my hand and say time is __nothing__ __and__ _everything___.

Suddeniy, I realize just how __fatigued__
you are with yourself.

-rjm

this was a mad lib prompt from Seneca Basoalto